Desperado
by fourheads
Summary: Two doctors keep finding themselves in the least seductive places, leading to far more than just seduction: they'll questuion their judgement, morals, even trust. Promises will be made. And broken. Secrets will be kept. And divulged. [HouseCam]
1. When Nobody's Lookin'

It was the late, tangerine afternoon; warming, pastel streaks of golds and ambers smudged the dying sky as an ominous moon ironically crept from its slumber, rising with the equivalent speed of the sun's descent.

Cruel, unrelenting night loomed overhead as the afternoon would slowly slink away in shame until the earth would fully spin on its axis yet again, an unseen performance that seemed no more complex than the rapid clockwise motion of a surgical drill. As it happens once daily, vice publicly triumphs over virtue as the righteous, brilliant sun dims and the moon, like a light switch, automatically lights up with an equivalent, yet contradictory glow. Although these opinions are strongly based on the outlook of man. One man, perhaps.

It was simple enough; the sun was truth, diligence, worthy pride, and ever the optimist, the moon was cleanly a bastard. A dolorous, venomous bastard that would prove that sympathy was appropriate only when sympathy was expedient.

Day.

Night.

Day was a safehouse, a haven even. Night was pain and lust; secrets kept and rarely told. And as the thin strand that kept night from reigning supreme, two figures, insignificant and unaware, stretched the strand to its limits, and night fell.

They moved as a lethargic blur, legs tangled, beads of perspiration running loose into their tired eyes, wiping themselves clean of reason and pitiful morals. Night was lust, but hell, no one ever said lust had to involve love or intimate feelings. In fact, the pair's reactions to one another's touch were so cold and callous that the friction running between them and beneath them could not have been the result of any more than a sick, spontaneous event made to satisfy their desires simply for the sake of satisfying their desires.

It was almost robotic.

_There's nothing else to it, no strings attatched_, mused the man, despite the shooting pain crawling up his leg, once again signaling his lack of consideration of the possible (and _likely_) negative outcome.

Although, the younger woman, hopeful and pining, kept her clandestine, and at one point, professed, feelings in shallow water, mimicking the man before her in his careless, starving motion. She moved against him, her mouth lingering over his powerfully, in the most desperately emotionless way (she hoped). Her gentle lips cruised over the rough surface of his skin as his unshaven chin brushed against her. Not once had either one spoken or muttered a single word whenever they found themselves distressed and alone. Not a single word.

Even angels would deny these incidents as feats of affectionate longing.

Whether it was an accidental tangle in the web of fate or merely coincidental that the two were, more often than not, finding themselves alone in on-call rooms and supply closets, the man, a dejected, standoffish cripple, mused that God had collaborated with Santa Claus toward making his life a living hell because he was more than certain that he was on the both of their naughty lists for life.

The two of them still fully clothed, save the diagnostician's leather jacket that had been discarded carelessly underneath the gurney they were sprawled on top of, the uniquely attractive male shot the woman a pointed gaze, his dangerously beautiful, intimidating blue eyes looking upward towards her as the angle of his face remained fallen.

It cut straight through the core of her being, his stare, and she nervously pondered whether she would be able to refrain from grabbing him and pressing his tempting frame against her body entirely, groping against him in pure ecstasy, if he would allow.

_Screw reason_, she reflected and forcefully pressed one hand against his firm lower back and one around the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, ridding them of any proximity in-between.

It was an impulse when he responded before her, his masculine senses reacting to the feel of another woman after such a lonely while.

He crushed his mouth onto hers, kissing her harder this time and forcing his tongue to enter her mouth greedily. The man, a renowned diagnostician and overall desperado, groaned hungrily as he explored the lack of consciousness that he was finding himself lost within as he grazed the delicate features of the fervent woman pressed underneath him. It was an intriguing but electrifying realization, and he had never failed to embrace a challenge, let alone back down from one. Why change a good thing?

The man was much taller than she was; his impressive, slumped frame gave him a mystifyingly formidable aura that most logical people hinted as a reason to keep their distance. But terrifying as his presence might be, the young doctor had to admit, the man had a way with his hands; long, lean, and skilled, sparking just about every sensation in the younger doctor's body.

She closed her eyes and let out a timid cry, his name creeping from her lips almost inaudibly. A knowing, tingling rush leapt through the woman's fingertips.

Every ounce of strength and dignity fell upon the shoulders of her next move.

As Gregory House firmly pressed her against a chilling wall in the vacant on-call room, Allison Cameron allowed her hands, like eager spiders, to caress his chest with the most craving activity as she made to undo the cruel, secretive fastens of his cotton navy shirt.

_HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE_

**A/N**: Well, well, weeeell... how was it? This is my first ever House fic so feedback is almost like a _necessity!! _ I can't really say whether its OOC yet since all House and Cam did was make-out and whatever. But anyways, I'd **reallllly** love to hear what everyone thinks since I'm most likely going to continue this fic. The actual storyline comes after some confessions and questions are addressed.

I'm such a huge supporter of House/Cameron that it's almost disgusting. Well actually, I lied. It _is _disgusting. 

P.S. House is © to Fox, David Shore, etc.


	2. Part 1: Who Cares?

(QUICK) **A/N:** Read! Review! Enjoy! Whatever! ( but seriously, _review_ )

_HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE_

**5 Days Previously:**

_Beeeeeeep. Beeeeeeep. Beeeeeeep._

_Beeeep. Beeeep. Beeeep. Beeeep_

_**Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.**_

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeep._

4:19 P.M. The dismal, screaming ring of a heart monitor bled into the frantic atmosphere, leaving nothing to the imagination.

House kneeled down and spoke directly to the newly-deceased patient's pale face as if he has just spilled a carton of milk. "Well that can't be good."

His usually gruff tone was impassive and careless as he set down the cold, metal defibrillators on the overly-sterilized countertop with an irritating _clank_.

He stripped off his eggshell surgical gloves, the stiff rubber snapping painfully against his wrists, and briskly folded the crinkled sheets over the young girl's blonde head.

Without the sheets, looking at her was like staring death in the face, her eyes gently shut, innocent, and inexpressive.

It was terrifying. It was surreal. House didn't bother to care.

Walking moderately out of the OR, House's back facing the ensemble, he addressed the patient's father halfheartedly, "Might want to clean that up-" he gently nudged the body with his cane, "-they start to rot like an old banana if you leave them out for too long, and it might be a stretch, but I'm guessing that _neither_ of us are in the mood to smell 'eau de corpse' all day." and smiled exaggeratedly, his eyes lighting up with faux enthusiasm and dying down with an equivalent dread.

Behind the clear wall connecting the OR to the main hallway, another man, leaning casually against the dismal scene playing out in front of him, breathed against the glass, leaving thick, smoky marks where his heavy breath had graced its surface.

Wilson sighed heavily; he had been surveying the scene before him from outside the sliding glass doors with mild interest; his friend had never been _that _cold when presented with death.

House was never one to be easily motivated, but whenever he actually had found a glimpse of interest in any case, the patient's life became a part of him, like it was his own pulmonary artery that severely needed an immediate replacement when his blood type rejected every donation that ran the gamut from A positive to O negative, or it was his throat that had relentless inflammation despite a lack of throat-related symptoms. But it never meant that he essentially _cared_, just that he found pride and worth in proving his abilities, his keen sense of a medical understanding and problem solving.

Even if Wilson would never know officially due to House's secretive, obstinate nature, it must have caused a great deflation in the renowned diagnostician's self-esteem, though his hard expression and firm, limping pace failed to acknowledge whether his suspicions would ever prove fact or fiction.

As House left the room, sliding the door shut and leaving the wide-eyed father to take in the scene of his dead child, Wilson placed a sympathetic hand on his long-time friend's hunched shoulder.

"Dumb luck?" Wilson offered quietly.

"Dumb patient. Most likely she'd been experiencing abdominal pain and increased lethargy for months, just never bothered to say anything." House stared at him blankly. "Dumb people can really suck."

"That's a very sensitive generalization,Greg."

"That's a very faggy tie, _Jimmy_." He quipped.

Wilson rolled his eyes and smiled briefly at his crude, negative sense of humor; House certainly was the drollest man he had ever come in contact with.

After fiddling with the grip of his wooden cane, House stepped aside from the oncologist's path, left to mentally review his latest failed diagnosis.

_It sucks, but no matter how hard you wish upon that stupid star, you can't fight the Big Guy,_ He mused as he walked further away from Wilson.

The fact of the matter was, House felt like shit. He had been positive that his diagnosis, that his patient surely had a rapidly-progressing tumor in her lymph nodes, while it actually lay latent in the thick chamber of her heart's right ventricle, slowing the flow of her blood and certainly failing to cause any mild to severe neck pain which she had previously complained of, was beyond the truth.

He loathed being wrong; it meant that along the way, somewhere, he had made a mistake. It made him question his judgment. His ability to prove his crazy, far-fetched, even disregarded theories. His morals. _Himself_.

The fear of failure, having to make an attempt despite that cringing feeling that the outcome would be disastrous, kept him from performing at his highest level of capability, hell, it kept him from performing medical tasks himself instead of shirking off work and leaving it to his underappreciated "ducklings".

So House turned to drugs.

Even when his legs _didn't_ experience the pains that the innocent pills had been prescribed for.

He pointlessly ducked behind an IV before reaching his rough hands into the confines of his leather jacket for his transparent brown bottle of Vicodin.

_Party time_, he mused.

_HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE_

**A/N**: Not much to say except PLEASE REVIEW! I can't express how much I _loooove_ hearing from all of you; your positive feedback keeps me writing & writing. (:

This (annoying short) chapter was obviously a flashback as will be the _next _chapter. But it will be a continuation of the same flashback. How annoying is that?! _ANNOYING x 3857409275723495723479 !!_

Lol, sorry, but I had to split the chapter in two, since it was waaaaay to long.

That's all. ** 3**


	3. Part 2: Who Cares?

**A/N**: Yeah, sup. Dis be part II of duh flashbizzack, fools. ENJOIII. Ohyah. & REVIEW!

_HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE_

House grinned, his violently blue eyes crinkling in satisfaction.

Minutes after the pills were ingested, a slow, creeping sensation of light-headedness and inflicted satisfaction followed chronologically down his throat, floating like an ominous storm cloud throughout the nerves of his brain.

He knew his internal joy ride would soon wear away and fall to the disgustingly merciless pain and depression that followed the drugs, but the lack of awareness he experienced always made him forget to remember the consequences of his thoughtless acts.

In a matter of moments, House heard cautious footsteps emulating his in motion and pace; he cursed himself for losing the capability to run, even just to walk at a faster pace. Even if it losing this previous capability _wasn't_ his fault, hey, at least it was something to complain about.

A timid, tired voice echoed lamely through the halls.

The young girl's father was behind him, monotonous clunks following the movement of his rubber soles against the pale, off-white flooring.

"Is it worth it?" he beseeched House's attention.

His eyes mourned and cried out; House immediately recognized his desperate need for sympathy, for the _invulnerability_ that would rid him of pretty, weakening emotions, for it proved evident in the way he fiddled with the lower buttons of his shirt, clasped and unclasped his shaking hands, itched at his crooked, pointed nose despite the unlikelihood that he would notice any uncomfortable senses due to the freezing temperature of the hospital and the emotional instability that he was currently entering. House knew the feeling.

He was greeted by a stinging silence.

"Doctor, I _need_ to know … is it worth it …? To-to stay alive? Even when everyone was telling you you'd get better, that everything would turn out alright? Even when they knew better? _You knew better?_"

Silence.

The diagnostician halted in his limping tracks.

House frowned in irritation, refusing to turn towards the father. "You think your daughter died emotionally, because she understood the reality of the situation despite the spoon-fed illusions that my staff and co-workers gave her. Not because of her medical condition that kept her from breathing, circulating blood, and basically _living _on her own."

"Y-yes. But when you put it _that_ way-"

_Dear God, he's one of those quixotic, hopeful people, _House whined to himself.

"Life isn't a happy, poorly-made Disney movie Mr.-" he hadn't asked for his name. "-Mr. What's-your-face; most of the time, you actually get to live the majority of your life **with** your mom and lying about the severity of your symptoms doesn't make them go away; it's the goddamn Circle of Life"he explained as if the truth could not be less complicated if it had been a four-year-old's toy puzzle.

"I-I'm sorry. I don't understand."

House rolled his eyes skyward, their vibrant, cerulean hue boring through the man's hurriedly-deflating psyche. "Your daughter _lied_ to me."

A singular tear slid down the father's thin, bony cheek as he hung his head in realization.

"That's believable." He whimpered. "Sharon had a problem with the truth. Made her feel too vulnerable."

"And I suppose she genetically received that _fantastic _trait from Daddy." House stared at him intently, completely void of humor.

Even after she had been admitted, House noticed that anxious glint in his patient's eye, the glint that said everything and anything; she _was _lying. She had refused to look straight into his eyes, (even though most people were unable to, out of fear and awe) her gaze constantly twitching from floor to ceiling.

"I wouldn't really worry _too _much about it, though. I mean, c'mon. _Everybody_ lies. It just so happens that _your _daughter's lie killed her,"

More tears.

House continued, "-But if you're looking for guidance or some holy figure to guide through your agonizing pain, then go sit under a tree and reach Enlightenment." He thought a brief moment. "Oh, or overpay a therapist, y'know, whatever works." He concluded by patting the man roughly on back and giving him a slight push towards the direction of the psyche ward.

He winced; a noticeably familiar creeping pain grabbed at his thigh, creating an extremely uncomfortable pressure within his faded jeans.

He growled low in his throat out of frustration; the Vicodin was proving ineffective for some odd reason. Snapping the cap open, he shook two more pills free of the container and tossed them into his mouth.

Lights faded and brightened unbearably. A tormenting ache pulled at his chest. His consciousness was lost. Then soon after, regained. Knowing these similar reactions to his addictive overdoses, House pressed his left side against the nearest wall, tightened the grip on his cane, and as quickly as his weakening dominant leg would carry him, he desperately forced himself with his last bursts of energy to reach the knob of the on-call room located no more than several feet away.

House's throat tightened, his eyes fought to remain open, every pore in his body began to perspire with increasing activity.

He fought, goddammithe fought like _hell_, but the tempting blackness that beckoned in the distance seemed far more appealing to his dying senses.

With a final, weak nudge, the door to the on-call room swung open with a violent creak and House crept through, his eyes shut, begging the migraine piercing his skull to subside.

The only other person occupying the room shot up from her previous, pathetic sitting position on a nearby gurney, and without delay, stood up in horror, only to be able to witness as the large frame of House collapsed entirely on the chilling hospital floor.

_HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE_

**A/N**: OKAY. Yeah. This is the second part of the flashback, so some annoying, lingering questions have yet to be answered. Don't fret, my loves! They will be! I shant leave you in the dark! Cameron _does_ show up. Seriously.

The end of the flashback will have all questions answered. _Maybe_. ;)


	4. FBP3: Behind Closed Doors

**A/N**: HEYHEYHEY AMAZING REVIEWER PEOPLE. I was thinking. All HouseCam shippers (because there's a disgustingly large enough number of us) should start some sort of fan-group. A- a cult? YES. YES THAT'S IT. A _cult_.

**The Amazingly Flaming Rabid Shippers of HouseCam Squad That Supports HouseCam** **and Nothing Else Because We're Stubborn and Better than Your Stupid ChaseCam/Huddy/ForemanWhatever Squads **!?

…No. Anyways; this chapter is looong. Which is a nice change since I'm not cutting it in half this time! Yayyy. I'm kind of proud of this chapter, considering that it's been added much sooner than expected, so I'm excited and hopeful to see your reviews pouring in! Just remember; constructive criticism is _appreciated_. Insults and "boo"ing are shunned upon. Not really, jkjk …maybe.

Btw, **FBP3** means "Flashback Part III".

Read! Review! Enjoy! Whatever!

( P.S.: This part of the flashback actually contains some HouseCam action. correction A LOT. So hold onto your keyboards, people. )

_HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE_

Indulgence.

She's beautiful like a tantalizing sundae to a middle-aged mother on a diet, addicting like the potent, devious scent of an overpriced bottle of champagne, and is as crude as a website bursting at the seams with porn more easily accessible than a public restroom.

She's everything we want and everything we know we shouldn't have.

But who can explain the truth behind indulgence, truly define such a venomous, dangerous desire that lies within a person longing for, _thriving_ _on_, pure gain and gain alone? Like the moon; destined to wipe away the blissful ignorance of a melting Sunday sun, simply to reign over a ceiling of stars with pride and power. Like a hopeless romantic, pining for her love; destined to chase her damn impossible dream, to somehow rid the world of its infamous hate and pain. And rejection.

Indulgence is a habit; it's inborn, untreatable, _fixed_. But we're all guilty and we're all hooked, because after we indulge, the feeling is irresistible and we never want to let it go. We forget, never wanting to remember the abhorred events that came before we learned how much simpler life could be if we just took a little more than we deserved. But who's to say who deserves what?

Obesity.

Economic imperialism.

A selfish, one-sided crush.

Drug overdoses and alcohol abuse.

Indulgence is the Neverland that coincides reality, a twilight in the midst of a world wallowing in carelessness and "I didn't know better"'s, keeping the dreamers dreaming and the needy needing.

Allison Cameron knew a thing or two about indulgence. Hell, at the moment, she was sweating a surplus of it; the 6+ feet of cynicism and misery that she had been pining for for what seemed like an eternity (but had actually been slightly over 5 months) had just burst into, and fainted in, the on-call room in which she had previously been sulking after her most recent patient had choked to death due to a collapsed lung.

She couldn't name what aspect of him truly attracted her, after all, he was _the_ Gregory House, the notorious, miracle-working diagnostician, hated and loathed by the gamut of every genre of human beings that crossed his path. He was even strongly disliked by a series of domestic animals.

But despite his obvious flaws, to Cameron, he was it.

House, in his own, remarkably … _characteristic_ way, was talented, droll, passionate (when interested), and attractive considering most aspects; although his unfortunate legs proved nearly useless to him after the infarction, his arms were lean and powerfully built from the arduous work of dragging his entire body around the hospital, aided by his cane companion. (**A/N**: _Haha_, get it?!) Cameron found it difficult _not_ to stare whenever he wore one of his form-fitting rock concert t-shirts (the Rolling Stones, for example) that stretched perfectly across his chest and shoulders, leaving the firm muscles in his back open for observation as he walked in her opposite direction.

She felt her heart wrench at the very sight of his eyes; those expressive, intriguing blue eyes made it pain-stakingly difficult to keep from kissing him or touching him whenever the opportunity reared its deliciously vulnerable head.

_What, sulking? Who's sulking? _She reflected, enchanted by her thoughts.

The man just had that effect on her.

Snapping out of her brief trance, Cameron sped to House's collapsed body and kneeled closer for examination; she was panicking at the sight of his helplessness but knew that for whatever reason he fainted, he would need _her_ immediate medical attention due to the fact that she refused to rush through the doors of the on-call room, dragging him on the floor just so that another doctor could perform a routine exam and spread a stinging rumor about them, most likely involving sex, rubber gloves, and a good portion of suggestively loud noises erupting from behind closed doors.

Cameron needed to work quickly and efficiently. And avoid further damaging her reputation as a respected professional.

_Damn it, his pupils are dilated_, she recognized as she forced his eyelids open. Shoving the earpieces of the stethoscope around her neck into her ears, Cameron removed his jacket and motioned the cold, circular surface of the instrument underneath his shirt and across his damp back.

Two thin fingers pressed firmly against his neck; his pulse was too slow for comfort and he was still sweating profusely underneath his t-shirt; she needed to lower his rising temperature, but how?

Cameron had two options; either remove his shirt, or cover his body with ice packs from the fridge behind her.

She beamed hopefully, her spirit galvanized.

_HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE_

_Sorry in advance, Sister Tabitha_, she apologized half-heartedly.

Cameron inwardly asked for forgiveness from her mentor from her childhood Sunday Church lessons. She even doubted the Big Guy himself would be able to find mercy after witnessing what she was about to do from his seat among the cloudy heavens.

Grinning with anticipation, the young doctor anxiously made to pull the cloth over House's frowzy head of hair. It was so intimate and exhilarating; it was just _too_ much of a good thing to the point that it was a depressing fact that he wasn't awake for her to be doing it and for him to be (unrealistically) persuading her to do so.

But something stopped her.

_When he wakes up, he'll know. House always knows. He'll probably find some towel or microscopic speck of dust that can prove that I took off his shirt. **Willingly**_, she thought.

She pulled her hands from under his shirt, retreating. _It's the right thing to do,_ her obnoxiously righteous conscious pleaded; but was it _truly _right? Here was Cameron, kneeling over the man that she knew she could never have and would never see in his prime, but now, _right_ at this very moment, the opportunity hovered just over her head; it was her Neverland. Who knew if she would ever find herself in a position like this again?

_Indulgence_; here it was, staring her straight in the face, coaxing her to continue.

She could almost hear House roar in anger and frustration; _DAMN IT, CAMERON. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING?_

"_I'm **not** thinking_," she decided nervously, and yanked the bottom of the cotton t-shirt violently, pulling it halfway over his tanned stomach.

Then suddenly, she heard a rough, unpleasant cough. A sputter. A groan. The body that she had been unconsciously caressing shifted underneath her uncomfortably.

"Looks like someone's playing strip poker and forgot to bring the cards."

House's tone was all but light; the harsh, groggy voice with which he spoke in was terrifyingly low with anger, a tone that he didn't even know he possessed. His bloodshot gaze zeroed in on the scene playing before him, their bright irises snapping into focus.

Cameron's eyes widened, horrified. _He fucking woke up_.

"Now tell me, Dr. Cameron; did you ever plan on _telling me_ that we were going at it? Or did your whore-ish mind think that practically giving me a 'pleasure' rectal examination would be alright under your standards?"

She wouldn't speak. She _couldn't_ speak. How could he possibly understand that she was trying to help him after he had fainted (despite the fact that her ostensible purpose had been otherwise), that she had only wanted to make sure that he was alright?

It was hard; it was just _so_ hard for her to find any words at all, just to apologize to him and run out of the room to hide forever in the safety of her apartment. House, his face written over with fury and disgust, took her hands in his, causing Cameron's wrists to tremble with fear. He stared straight at her pitiful expression, "_You have crossed a line, Cameron_. There was a point at which I may have enjoyed, even was amused by your little 'obsession' with me, but now, _now_, you have taken this too far! What did you think I would say? Did you think old, crotchety House would get all hot and excited because he was about to _unknowingly_ get some with a woman young enough to be his own _daughter_?! Where the hell was your _logic_?" he shook her hands wildly and let them go with a painful jerk.

Cameron was on the brink of breaking down in front of her furious boss. She was prepared to run at an accelerated speed past him and never want to see his disgustingly handsome face again. But just then, a slight _twang_ went off in her thought process.

Her fear had passed. Her apologetic cries had passed. It had all gone away with her "logic", she realized.

Now, Cameron felt pity. Pity for _House_. Pity for the fact that she thought that he was even decent enough to love; the stupid man was a selfish goddamn bastard, a bastard that had laughed at her hopeful "crush" when he should have been flattered or at least showed some emotion towards her other than a blank slate and passed on an inappropriate comment or two. Other than finding _humor_ in her affection!

Now she was ready to talk.

"You want to know _why _I loved you, House? _Do you?_" She tossed away his topic and replaced it with her own.

_Oh please, don't cry for me, Argentina_, House mused as he stifled the laughter rising in his throat from the cleverness of his own Broadway hilarity.

Cameron remained unfazed.

Tears stung the lining of her eyelids, threatening to smear the perfection that was the curve of dark eyeliner complementing her brown lashes. "I loved you because I thought that underneath your shallow sarcasm and 'everybody lies' crap, there was something _else_. I thought you were capable of loving someone, showing me that you could care; when I saw you with Stacy, that's all I could _think _of! That you _loved her._ So I pointlessly thought you could love _me _if you even had the decency to love another person half as much as you try to hide behind your insecurities and drugs and alcohol. I respectedyou, House, _admired _you. How much longer do you think that I, one of the few and only remaining people with any ounce of tolerance for your insensitive antics, can still respect you _when you can't even respect yourself?_"

House stiffened. He was still groggy after coming back to reality from his dangerous high, but was aware enough to feel a tingling rush of blood course throughout his body. It wasn't anger, and it certainly was love, but it was _different_.

But it didn't change his attitude.

"Okay, Incredible Screaming Woman, just let me-"

"_NO_. You don't get to make light of the situation now; you've lost that privilege with me. Not until I'm done." She interrupted harshly and continued. "I watched you two when I thought you weren't looking. But can you blame me? I was curious and stupidly hopeful and I _thought_ that I loved you! Do you know what I found? You couldn't even do that! You couldn't love her enough because you were too caught up with _anything_ that seemed even the slightest bit more interesting to you, and yet you _still_ wonder why she didn't love you half as much as the man she left you for. I could apologize, House, but what difference would it make? It wouldn't _interest_ you. That's all it takes to win you over, if not, just for a brief moment; _interest_." Allison Cameron then pushed away from House, making to exit the room dramatically and with a large enough impact so that he might actually consider what she had been saying.

But that might have been asking a little _too_ much, especially from House of all people.

For a brief moment, she looked back at him, distraught; there were a faint flicker of curiousness in his stare, although he seemed far from the intimidated state that she had hoped her monologue would have caused him to reach.

_God, it's so hard to hate him. _

But she _had_ to; it would be easier to hate him than to be humiliated by him; she could practically hear Foreman's voice, thick with an intertwined mess of amusement and disapproval, pleading for her to view the situation with an understanding that her professional career was critically at stake if she continued to hound him. Chase would most likely hang his head, beaten, and fiddle with his hands until they were painfully red.

_It's for the best_, _Cameron. _

Damn her conscience.

Before pressing open the door to leave him, Cameron watched as House pathetically used his tired arms to grab hold of the gurney sitting next to him, hoisting himself upward into the most prominent standing position that his still-aching body would allow before his legs would give out from under him entirely.

He looked down at the younger woman; even in his temporarily weak stage, House's height caused him to tower over Cameron forebodingly.

He took in a noticeably painful breath, his throat rasping at the difficulty it presented within his lungs.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you've certainly caught my 'interest.'"

Cameron wasn't sure whether or not he meant it sarcastically, hoping to push her rage over its boiling point, or if it was out of completely uncharacteristic sincerity, a peace offering, but he spoke to her as if he was the dog with his tail between his legs and she was the owner with a rolled up newspaper in her hands as she looked up at him for that small moment.

And in that one glance, she saw the walls that he had spent so many years building around his heart, crack, only slightly. Of course they didn't crumble, but it was a start.

_He's- he's trying… or at least I **think** he's trying. Sort of, _a warmth fizzing around the lower portion of her neck, crawling upward towards her cheeks and causing her to twitch with a sudden uneasiness as she eyed House curiously.

She begged herself to stop. _As if that would work_.

A metaphorical light bulb then went off in his head. He immediately picked up on her uneasiness; _Stares, shifting weight between each leg, unable to maintain a single focal point, dryness of the mouth._

He smiled.

"Do I mark you _nervous_, Dr. Cameron?" She thought she would die just then, "Because the twins look a bit _perkier_ than usual." He pointed towards her chest with the tip of his cane, menacingly.

Cameron somehow found the strength to close the door, endorphins zipping through her bloodstream with anticipation. She had barely heard what he was saying.

His wide-set shoulders carried the remainder of his torso with a neglected pride that only House could express as "please do me." His unkempt mess of hair was mounted against his forehead by the thick layer of sweat that stung his eyelids, the longer strands nearly falling into his porcelain blue eyes with a tempting, disobedient aura.

_Oh god, not the eyes_, she mused, fixedly.

Her heart pounded excitedly within her chest, each beat growing more painful than the last, crashing against the wall of her sternum forcefully.

"I-Ihave to go- the hospital... patients...," she took a step in his direction, despite her babbling.

His eyes were watching her intently; he could practically feel the singular, slender trickle of sweat racing down the side of her cheekbone, "I could say that your mindless jabber unflatteringly makes you sound like a four-year-old with a mild mental retardation, but then that would just be hypocritical. And redundant."

"_Oh, just shut up, House_." Cameron snapped.

And then she was on top of him. Lips met lips. Thigh met thigh. It was total insanity and in the midst of it all, they both felt that a bit of madness had been released within them.

Gripping her hands firmly against his shoulders, she held herself up against the wall, bringing his entire body painstakingly close to hers, and in-between, devouring her sanity as she crushed her mouth against his ravenously, the dark stubble running along his lower jaw rubbing her neck raw. She readily curled her leg around his still-functioning thigh, waiting for a response. _Anything_.

It was a disheartening fact, but Cameron couldn't disregard the fact that House stiffened slightly underneath her touch; she couldn't name what he was feeling, he wouldn't allow himself to meet her gaze.

But there was no way in _hell_ that it would keep him from reacting.

Ridding them of any proximity, House pressed his hips against hers, grinding them industriously in an equal, starving motion and knocking several medical journals splayed on a nearby counter onto the floor with a resounding _smack_. House looked down at the mess he was making briefly and went back to work.

Cameron was too eager to have him inside her; everything he was doing to her, _making her feel_, was far more than she could have ever asked for for Christmas.

As a way of expressing her "gratitude", she gently took his hands in hers, removing them from her lower back in their previous, wicked position. For once, he looked at her, his eyes full of humorously pathetic disapproval. Ignoring his doubt, she placed them underneath her white Victorian-style shirt and over her stomach. It was his free access card and House was more than ready to cash it in.

Marveling at her delicate femininity, House felt the approval create a harsh, pleasurable pressure within his faded jeans.

But he wouldn't destroy what was left of his rapidly-deteriorating pride just to get in her oh-so-tantalizing pants. Yet.

_This is so much better than that St. Patrick's Day party_, he mused undoubtedly.

Cameron was about to finish what she had started before he had woken up, but House stopped her with a final thrust against her hips, a low, hungry groan escaping his throat. She almost fell over in ecstasy.

_God, I still love him_, she pried into the inner chambers of her thoughts, revealing what she was terrified to realize; _he _didn't love her. Their feelings weren't mutual, if House had any affection-related feelings to begin with. She placed the thought deeper in her mind, storing it away for another depressing day, but for now, she had this small moment with House to feel what she figured she would never feel again; she doubted he would let her.

_How did I get underneath him? _She questioned.

He moved away from her, reaching for his cane, then the door. Before retreating to the reality of the hospital's stupidity and death when presented, House moved a finger over his lips secretively. "Shhhhh," He mouthed and closed the door behind him, leaving Cameron leaning against the wall, exhausted.

She smiled inwardly, _That was so much better than that club in Sacramento._

**A/N:** End of the flashback! (Thank _God_.) This is _not_ part of the first chapter. If there's a next chapter, the four days in-between now and then will be summarized with nothing left to the imagination.

Continue? (Review!)


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